


Only

by echoist



Category: Primeval
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 00:12:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoist/pseuds/echoist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Connor came back alone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only

“Sir,” the voice crackled in his ear, riding a wave of static from the anomaly. “The incursion, it’s not – well, you’d better come see this.”  _Give a man some warning_ , Becker thought, climing out of the Rover to see his men surrounding what looked like a frail human captive, face to the ground, arms behind his back. Could it be? It couldn’t, not possibly and yet it was - a very familiar man, even from this distance. Even filthy, dressed in scraps of leather held together with threadbare red patches. Even after all this time.

Becker parted the line with a word, squatting down on the pavement beside their captive – beside _Connor_. Becker reached out a hand, but he was already rising to his feet, head held at an angle like some sort of bird. His motions were swift, wary. Connor was leaner than Becker remembered. He was - fierce. His hair ran to his shoulders, tangled, unkempt and a scraggly beard obscured his lower face.

“Danny?” Becker asked, hesitant. Connor tilted his head to one side, his expression questioning, curious. At last he shook his head in silent answer; no, not with him.

“Abby?” Becker risked the question, already knowing the answer from the state of him. Connor stared down at the concrete, his face gone dull and slack with resignation. Loss. Becker’s eyes slid shut in a terrible sort of empathy.  _God, how he must have suffered, alone all this time_.

Becker moved to stand beside him, slinging one arm around Connor’s back. He clasped his shoulder firmly in an attempt at reassurance and – something else, Becker couldn’t have quite named. Shock, perhaps. Relief. Connor’s face crumpled at the contact and bit by bit, the rest of him followed, a dim star collapsing in on itself. He turned suddenly towards Becker, shoulders hunched and shaking and Becker’s arms wrapped around him, catching and holding (close) before he could stop to second-guess.

He knew how it must look, one hand resting in the small of Connor’s back while the other stroked through his hair again and again, damp with sweat and oil. Becker breathed in the scent of him, raw and awful and still so damn familiar and he couldn’t care what his men thought, watching them. Nothing mattered apart from this. “Missed you,” he whispered, meaning to say something else, meaning everything.

Connor’s arms spasmed around him, rough, as if he never meant to let go.


End file.
